


Someone Else's Toys

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Body Swap, M/M, Masturbation in Shower, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 10:10:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14518188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: He doesn’t get really reckless with Evans’ body until lunchtime.





	Someone Else's Toys

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: body swap.

He doesn’t get really reckless with Evans’ body until lunchtime. He’s really good until then. It’s kind of remarkable. **  
**

When he first woke up in his own bed wearing his best friend’s skin, he couldn’t stop grinning. Oh sure, it was freaky and sort of fundamentally unsettling to look in the mirror and see the guy he had a crush on staring back, shirtless, eyes bright and wide in a way that he’d never seen Chris actually work them. He should’ve been frightened. He got that. But he wasn’t. It felt like a dream.

And then he couldn’t find his phone. Or his laptop. Or the iPad from five years ago he used when he traveled. No electronic doodads of any kind. Huh. Now that scared him.

But when he flipped on the TV and checked MSNBC, there were no headlines about an alien invasion or chemical warfare or terrorists kidnapping Captain America, and when he padded out onto the balcony and peered down at the street, the rest of the world looked pretty normal. So, he’d thought, pitching Chris’ hip against the railing and stretching arms that weren’t his towards the sky, it was only him that was fucked up. Ok. That he could deal with.

He took a deep breath and went back inside for breakfast. Waffles, because it was the weekend. Bacon, because he could. Coffee because Chris hated coffee and he wanted to see if he did now, too, now that he was wearing the dude like a person suit.

Answer? He took two sips and plunked the mug on the counter, frowning. Huh. It didn’t taste right.

He took a shower and took his time and took liberties and cranked the water up, after, feeling flushed and vaguely dirty. Didn’t stop his hands from getting the better of him, from wandering away from the loofah and playing fast and loose with the rules again. The second time, he got stuck in the thought of the weight trembling in his fist trembling instead inside him and the end came incredibly fast, a whoosh of want that punched him in the chest and left him shaking against the shower wall, little sounds pounding from his mouth–-fuck, no, from Chris’, and now he knew what Chris sounded like when he came and oh shit, it was hard to feel guilty when he felt so fucking good.

His robe didn’t fit. Neither did his slippers. In fact, 90% of what was in his closet didn’t either, and why it was so important that he got dressed and got out was a mystery until he caught a glimpse of himself, of Chris, in the mirror, with a towel slipping over his hips and his hair wet and his chest still flushed from the shower and he realized that if he didn’t leave, didn’t push himself out of his apartment, he’d stay in bed all day playing with someone else’s (really beautiful) toys and that was more than his conscience could handle.

Besides, he needed to find Chris, needed to figure out what the hell had happened, and where had they gone last night, anyway? Some little bar out in Chelsea, a speakeasy–secret password and everything. Right. What was the name of it, again?

He rooted around in his coat pocket, tongue set against the edge of his teeth, and bingo, yeah, finds a matchbook with the bar’s name emblazoned on it in gold:  _Lujuria_.

Great, he thought, turning the green square in his fingers. Good. Now where the hell were his cigs?


End file.
